Dead Things

by Stephen Blackmoore

  Soon he’s nothing but a withered image, glowing dull as wind-blown coals, and then gone.

  Chapter 2

  There’s no point cleaning anything up. I wouldn’t even know where to start. More Troopers will be here soon and I’d rather not have to talk my way out.

  I leave the truck in the lot. It’s stolen and I like Washington’s Caddy better. It’s a sweet ride. I throw a don’t-look-at-me spell on it and head north to New Mexico. About ten miles up I see a line of State Troopers barreling down the highway.

  I’d hate to be them right now. They’re going to need a shovel to pick up all the pieces. I pull over to let them pass, watch them disappear in the rearview mirror. And that’s when the shakes start.

  You’d think by now, after a lifetime of dealing with the dead, after years of honing my craft and seeing horrors even worse than what Washington did in that bar down the road, that I’d be used to it. That it wouldn’t get to me.

  You’d be wrong.

  I get out of the car and throw up all over the side of the road. Bodies I can handle. The dead I can handle. But what he did back there, what he could have done to me if I’d fucked it up.

  I get back into the car, wipe my mouth on a crumpled up map, pull onto the road. Take all those thoughts and shove them deep in the back of my head where they can’t get in my way.

  I cross over into New Mexico about an hour later, make good time and roll into Carlsbad before sunset. Hit a motel on the outskirts of town by the college. Twelve-unit deal with cable TV, wireless internet, a cafe and grocery next door. I grab a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red from the store.

  I pick up a few wanderers on the way to my room, untethered ghosts that aren’t tied to a place. Most of them are trauma patients from the nearby hospital. Burn victims, car crashes, gunshots. Yeah, I run with the cool kids.

  Ghosts come to me like moths to a flame. I can see them and they can see me. They hover like groupies. I scatter a handful of sunflower seeds outside the door, stick a couple of Post-its with palindromes written on them to the doorjamb. If I really wanted to get rid of the ghosts I’d nail a dead cat to the windows, but that’s always struck me as a bit extreme.

  They stop at the door, counting the seeds, reading the palindromes backward and forward and doing it all over again like good little obsessive compulsives. I close the door on their empty faces.

  I take a shower, wash off the sweat and dust. Adrenaline had me going back at the bar and I didn’t notice Washington had smacked me around pretty good until I was ten miles down the road. Bruises, cuts, one of my ribs feels like it’s been hit with a sledgehammer. Butterfly bandages take care of the worst of the cuts.

  It’s hard to see the bruises. I’m tattooed over most of my body. Neck to wrists to ankles. Wards and sigils. Symbols in dead languages to help ward off threat, divert attention, help me focus my magic. Started collecting them years ago and I keep adding ink.

  I’ve got one that looks like a starburst in an eye that wards off spells that affect the mind, another of an armadillo that’s pretty good against gunshots. Does fuck all for baseball bats. Found that out the hard way in an alley in Philadelphia.

  Got a murder of crows in flight that covers my chest from shoulder to shoulder. I can’t look at it too long in the mirror. It keeps moving. Gives me a headache.

  Compared to me, the Illustrated Man’s got a tramp stamp he tore off a yoga mom from Orange County. One patch on my left forearm is bare of tattoos, but covered in small scars. A lot of my spells need blood, and there’s not always a black ram around when you need one.

  I crack open the bottle of Johnnie Walker and pour some into a glass that’s been thoughtfully sanitized for my protection. I sit in the one chair in the room, a recliner that only goes partway back. Feels like home.

  Which it pretty much is. I don’t do well staying in one place for very long. Roots are not something I want to lay down. Been there, done that. Didn’t work out so well. My life is a succession of rest stops and cheap hotels. Walmart fashion and estate sale finds. I’ve got three suits from Goodwill that were in fashion in the sixties. Most of my stuff belonged to dead men. Like my new Cadillac.

  I’m getting settled in with my second glass of whisky when there’s a pounding on my door. I pull the Browning, look through the peephole. Hotel staff. I thumb back the hammer of the gun, open the door onto two men and a woman I’ve never seen before.

  Then I notice one of the men isn’t wearing any pants.

  “Oh, it’s you. Come on in.”

  The woman and one of the men step into the room with an almost regal bearing. The pantsless one half-lopes, half-skips in. Thank god he’s at least wearing briefs. And for some reason, his socks and shoes. I offer the chair to the lady, let the men figure out where they want to be. I stand next to the door.

  As Loa go the Barons Samedi and Kriminel and Samedi’s wife, Maman Brigitte, are about as high-ranking as you get. They head up the Ghede family, the Loa that oversee the Dead. Loa aren’t the only spirits that do that sort of thing, of course, but they’re some of the better known.

  The Loa possess their followers, riding their bodies like horses, rather than appear on their own. If they don’t have a member of their flock around I suppose some random housekeeper will do in a pinch. Their hosts won’t remember any of this. Which is probably good for the guy with no pants.

  “Barons,” I say. “Madame. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow night.”

  “We come when we fucking well want to come,” Kriminel says in a thick Haitian accent that sounds weird coming out of a middle-aged white guy in tightie whities. He snarls, spit running down his chin. He’s always like this.

  “We thought it wise to come sooner, Eric,” Maman Brigitte says.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong?” Samedi says. Compared to Kriminel, his and Brigitte’s accents are almost unnoticeable. “No, nothing’s wrong. Our children and brothers and sisters have come home to us.”

  When they hired me, Samedi told me that he was representing all of the families. Washington had stolen Loa from each one. They weren’t afraid of Washington per se, but they were concerned. He had ensnared so many of them that the Royalty didn’t want to take any chances and end up in his hands.

  “Okay. So …”

  “We wanted to say thank you and give you your payment,” Brigitte says.

  “And a warning,” Samedi says.

  Ah, I knew something was wrong.

  “Piss on his payment and his warning,” Kriminel says. He’s cracked open the bottle of Johnnie Walker and is pouring it into his open mouth. Most of it ends up down his shirt. Glad I didn’t buy anything expensive.

  Brigitte pulls a small leather purse from her handbag, hands it to me. I open it up. Doubloons.

  “This isn’t what we agreed on.”

  Kriminel gets right up my face, spitting as he says, “Who do you think you are, making demands?” The longer they stay in their hosts the more the hosts will begin to resemble them. Already Kriminel’s host is starting to smell like grave dirt and decay. I push him away from me.

  “I know,” Brigitte says, hesitating and looking like she’s bit into a lemon, “but we are having trouble. Kriminel agreed too hastily and we were bound by it. We don’t understand what a ‘bank transfer’ is.”

  And apparently couldn’t find someone who did. “Don’t you blame this on me, Brigitte,” Kriminel says.

  “I understand,” I say. There’s no helping it. “Not a complaint, merely an observation. This is more than adequate.” I know a guy in New Jersey who can move the coins, so that’s not a problem. “You said something about a warning?”

  “Beware what you trust,” Samedi says.

  “Oh, it’s one of those warnings.” Some things like to be cryptic, some things have to be cryptic. And some are bound by old laws to be cryptic only about certain things, like prophecies and fortunes. Seems this falls into one of those camps.

  “I wish we
could say more,” Brigitte says. “We like you.” She glances over at Kriminel, who’s finished the scotch and has moved onto the shampoo on the bathroom counter.

  He scowls at her. “Fuck him,” yells Kriminel. “Fuck him to hell.”

  “Well, Samedi and I like you,” she says.

  “We would hate to see anything untoward happen,” Samedi says, “and lose one of our most talented friends. So please, take care.”

  “Can we leave now?” Kriminel says. “I’ve run out of things to drink.” Good thing he hasn’t noticed the minibar. His shirt and face are caked with shampoo, scotch and shaving cream. I feel sorry for the guy he’s taken over. That is going to be one nasty hangover in the morning.

  “Yes,” Samedi says. “You have your payment, we have given your warning.”

  Kriminel is the first out the door, muttering something about black roosters, Samedi right behind him. Brigitte stops at the threshold, turns to me, puts a hand on my cheek. She searches my eyes for something.

  “Truly, beware. Things have already been set in motion, but your part has not yet begun. It starts tonight.”

  What would be so bad that they would hand deliver a warning? And get Kriminel to go along with them?

  I close the door behind them, wondering what Brigitte meant, when the phone rings.

  I stare at it like it’s a rattlesnake. Coincidences are few and far between with magic. I wait for it to stop and kick over to the hotel’s voicemail. It’s got to be a wrong number. Nobody knows I’m here.

  And I mean nobody. I’ve got so many redirection spells inked into my skin it’s a wonder I can find myself on a map. Sure, I can be tracked, but it’s not easy.

  Five rings. Ten, twenty. I disconnect it from the wall. It keeps ringing.

  That’s what I was afraid of. It’s that kind of call.

  We get into a rhythm, the phone and I. It rings. I don’t answer. I can do this all night. I let it go and toss back a couple more drinks.

  There’s a banging on the wall from my neighbor, a muffled shout telling me to answer the goddamn phone. I let it ring some more.

  The more it goes on, the more pissed off I get. Somebody’s gone to a lot of trouble to track me down. I’ve got a voicemail number I check every few days for clients and job offers. It’s easy to find.

  Finally, after the ringing’s gone on for almost half an hour, I pick it up, say nothing.

  “Hello Eric,” says the voice on the other end. Quiet, hesitant. “I know you’re there.”

  Now there’s a voice I haven’t heard in a long time. No use denying it. “Been a while, Alex. What, ten years?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Tough to track me down?”

  “Yeah. You’re not easy to find.”

  “Good. I’m not supposed to be.” I hang up the phone. It starts ringing again before I get the handset into the cradle.

  More ringing. More shouting from the neighbor.

  I might as well talk to him. It’ll just keep going. I pick it up. “I give up already. What?”

  A beat of silence, then, “Lucy’s dead.”

  I want to ask “Lucy who?” but I know who he means. I haven’t seen my younger sister since I left Los Angeles behind. Is Alex right? Has it been fifteen years? That would make her, what, thirty-two?

  “What happened?” I say.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “Alex, the fuck happened?”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the phone. If he’s expecting me to wail and gnash my teeth he’s going to be waiting for a long time.

  “Murdered,” he says. “Something attacked her in her home.”

  “Some thing? I assume you’re not talking about an animal.”

  “No. Though the cops are saying that. They don’t know what else to call it. Eric, she was torn apart. It’s bad. And it stinks of magic.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Couple weeks ago. Been trying to track you down since.”

  There’s no question in my mind that Alex might be wrong. Lucy wasn’t powerful at all, but she would have known enough to buy wards for her home, something. Unless she blew through the inheritance and trust fund she got after our parents died, she’d have been able to afford it.

  This numb feeling is shock. I’ve been here before. A wave of grief starts to crack through. I want to scream. Beat something. I slam that feeling down, bury it where it can’t get to me, where it can’t get in the way. I can control it or it can control me.

  “Do you know who did it? Or why?” My voice doesn’t even crack.

  “No. I tried a divination when I was in the house, but whatever did it covered its tracks really well. But I’m wondering …”

  “What?”

  “Well, I know it’s been a long time, but, Boudreau? That is why you left, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I left.” That’s a name I haven’t thought of in years. Haven’t let myself. Put it behind me, never looked back.

  “Well?”

  “Hang on. I’m thinking.”

  I left L.A. in a hurry. Didn’t tell anyone I was leaving, but everybody had to know why I disappeared. I killed a guy named Jean Boudreau. I was as surprised as anyone else when it happened. I was raw then. Angry. I’ve learned a lot since.

  He ran a mob that was fucking around with magical types. Had some powerful mages on his side. Pissed off a lot of people when I killed him.

  “No,” I say. It can’t be him. “I don’t think so. You ever hear of a guy named Ben Duncan? Black guy. Probably be in his fifties now. Was working for Boudreau.”

  “I stayed out of that mess, man. As much as any of us could.”

  “Smart. He was pretty high up the food chain. Got hold of me after it happened. Gave me a choice. I bail or he’d kill me, Lucy, and pretty much everybody else I know.”

  The silence on the other end of the line stretches a long time.

  “Well, that explains a lot,” Alex says, though something in his voice tells me it doesn’t excuse anything.

  I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. Now’s not the time to get into it.

  “There’s no reason he would have done anything,” I say.

  I’m trying to treat this like it’s a job. But my control’s wavering.

  “Where are you now?” Alex says.

  “New Mexico.”

  I haven’t thought about Lucy in a long time. Our parents are long dead, and I’ve never heard of any other family.

  Fuck. Somebody needs to make arrangements. Set up the funeral.

  How do I do that? I don’t go to funerals. Hell, I don’t go to cemeteries. I hang around real dead people. Nobody dies in a fucking cemetery.

  I’m getting dizzy, short of breath.

  “Funeral. I need to … Fuck. Alex, I need to set up a funeral.” The room starts to spin around me.

  “It’s okay,” Alex says. “It’s done. She’s with your mom and dad. I took care of it.”

  Suddenly I’m angry at Alex. I was supposed to do that. I’m her brother. I couldn’t make her safe when I was there and I couldn’t make her safe when I left. The least I could have done, the least Alex could have let me do, is set up her fucking funeral.

  Did a lot of people show up? I don’t know even who her friends were. Was she dating anybody? Did she get married? Holy fuck, what if she had kids?

  I pull myself together. Take a deep breath.

  “Right. Thanks. I’ll be out there in, fuck, give me a couple of days. Where can I meet you?”

  “I run a bar in Koreatown. I’m there every day.” He gives me the address, a place on Normandie, and his phone number.

  I’m not sure which of us is more surprised. Him about me coming out there or me that he owns a business. Last I saw Alex he was running short cons down in Hollywood using magic to bilk marks out of cash. Jesus, what else has changed?

  “There’s a bouncer,” he says. “Tell him you’re there to see me. He’ll let you in.”

  “S
ounds like an upscale joint,” I say.

  “I prefer to keep the riffraff out.”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  I hang up the phone, realize too late I didn’t ask any of those questions about Lucy. I’d get him back on the phone, but that wasn’t the kind of call that leaves a return number. I get my breathing under control, fight the urge to throw the phone across the room. Do it anyway.

  They say you can’t go home again. Guess I’m about to find out if that’s true.

  Chapter 3

  The early morning sun bleaches the landscape. Scrub brush, dirt. Miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles. Kind of view that’ll drive a man crazy. I’m exhausted and look it. Spent the night running scenarios in my head, coming up with a plan. Too many unknowns. Anything beyond, “Get to L.A.” is pretty pointless. But I keep trying, anyway.

  The desert isn’t helping. I’ve had everyone from the guy at the motel counter to the woman I bought my coffee from tell me it’s a dry heat. Yeah. ’Cause that somehow makes it better.

  As a guy I know from Texas is fond of saying, “Fuck all y’all.”

  I’m not a fan of the desert. Not the heat, the dryness, or the magic.

  Most of us don’t have enough power to light a monkey’s fart, much less chuck a fireball, so we tap into the local pool. The way the flavor of soil leaches into wine grapes, so the character of a place leaches into its magic.

  The desert tastes dry like dust and wind. Air spells are easy here. Water spells take a bit more effort. Go down to the Everglades and it’s a different story.

  Down there it’s all wild green and wet, loamy earth. The insane growth and deadliness of the swamp is great for plant magic, fertility magic, death magic.

  I cut up through to the 82, head west and down to Alamogordo and Holloman Air Force Base. The magic tastes of airplane fuel and oil, hot metal and order. The feeling stays until well after White Sands.

  Each city is different. Their character is in their people, their history. New York is heavy like brick and mortar, metallic like hammers. San Francisco is dark and intricate like gold-filigreed chocolate. Vegas tastes like despair.